Fill Part 1?
anonymous
February 18 2011, 00:04:59 UTC
I apologise profusely for the lack of formatting and possible typos- writing this late at night, on a phone. I am rusty. I hope this does the prompt justice: Also: I have used /slashes/ for italics. -- It had all been a stupid mistake, really. After that night at the pool, what with the mad lilting voice and the lasers and the /explosions/, Moriarty had definitely made his mark. So Sherlock and John had been understandably worried about staying alive past stumbling out of the pool building, coughing in the smoke ("I had to call Mycroft, John. I have to keep you safe, you see"). For weeks after the 'incident', Sherlock had taken text by phone and had spent angry hours abusing John's laptop keyboard. John had gone to work followed by CCTV - sort of, he feels, like a reverse red riding hood - and Sherlock had even managed to get shopping delivered. John sudden understands how he's managed until now. These security measures which are simultaneously ridiculous and necessary last for a whole of a fortnight, until Sherlock takes a murder-suicide case in a gated community (his version of 'perfectly safe and harmless', apparently) and they both leave the flat for the first time, /properly/, in ages. It's all going well until John is called into one of the suspect's living rooms by the aunt to be offered a cup of tea, and he hears the click of the gun and the rumbling "don't move," behind him, and a coarse black bag is slipped over his head for the first time in as many weeks. He doesn't know where Sherlock is, has no time to wonder how the hell one of Moriarty's people has got in, because now the gun is jabbing his temple and instructions are being garbled in his ear and he's walking blindly; tripping and stumbling on unfamiliar terrain as he tries to remember the floorplan from earlier glimpses ("the human visual memory is only 62% accurate, John," only this time there is no mobile phone and no time to think) and he falls onto a step, and then another, and the gun is going to leave a bruise. The unknown thug now has him by he scruff of the jacket to stop him falling or struggling and in the next second roughly bends his back down and shoves him somewhere. Sounds like a vehicle. But it's all right, because there's something - someone - else by his leg and he dares to hope that it is sherlock, and as the lid/door slams (definitely a boot) he feels safe enough to reach out and blindly feel for a leg or an arm and -yes, it's Sherlock's hand. John clutches tight to it and doesn't let to because even though the lump beside him is Sherlock it hasn't moved or spoken since he has been in his presence, which probably means he's not going to notice the doctor holding his hand like a favoured toy. John needs and anchor to his partner, needs it to stop the claustrophobic hood and boot closing in, and there is no-one to see. The vehicle pulls away, crunching the gravel below, and is gone.
Also: I have used /slashes/ for italics.
--
It had all been a stupid mistake, really.
After that night at the pool, what with the mad lilting voice and the lasers and the /explosions/, Moriarty had definitely made his mark. So Sherlock and John had been understandably worried about staying alive past stumbling out of the pool building, coughing in the smoke ("I had to call Mycroft, John. I have to keep you safe, you see").
For weeks after the 'incident', Sherlock had taken text by phone and had spent angry hours abusing John's laptop keyboard. John had gone to work followed by CCTV - sort of, he feels, like a reverse red riding hood - and Sherlock had even managed to get shopping delivered. John sudden understands how he's managed until now. These security measures which are simultaneously ridiculous and necessary last for a whole of a fortnight, until Sherlock takes a murder-suicide case in a gated community (his version of 'perfectly safe and harmless', apparently) and they both leave the flat for the first time, /properly/, in ages.
It's all going well until John is called into one of the suspect's living rooms by the aunt to be offered a cup of tea, and he hears the click of the gun and the rumbling "don't move," behind him, and a coarse black bag is slipped over his head for the first time in as many weeks. He doesn't know where Sherlock is, has no time to wonder how the hell one of Moriarty's people has got in, because now the gun is jabbing his temple and instructions are being garbled in his ear and he's walking blindly; tripping and stumbling on unfamiliar terrain as he tries to remember the floorplan from earlier glimpses ("the human visual memory is only 62% accurate, John," only this time there is no mobile phone and no time to think) and he falls onto a step, and then another, and the gun is going to leave a bruise. The unknown thug now has him by he scruff of the jacket to stop him falling or struggling and in the next second roughly bends his back down and shoves him somewhere. Sounds like a vehicle. But it's all right, because there's something - someone - else by his leg and he dares to hope that it is sherlock, and as the lid/door slams (definitely a boot) he feels safe enough to reach out and blindly feel for a leg or an arm and -yes, it's Sherlock's hand. John clutches tight to it and doesn't let to because even though the lump beside him is Sherlock it hasn't moved or spoken since he has been in his presence, which probably means he's not going to notice the doctor holding his hand like a favoured toy. John needs and anchor to his partner, needs it to stop the claustrophobic hood and boot closing in, and there is no-one to see.
The vehicle pulls away, crunching the gravel below, and is gone.
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